


Never Gonna Give You Up

by mandy_croyance



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dalton Academy, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 21:06:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2747060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandy_croyance/pseuds/mandy_croyance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It begins as these things often do: with exceptionally cheesy 80’s pop music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Gonna Give You Up

**Author's Note:**

> So this piece is hella old but was never actually published. It was written way back in 2011 when everyone was still envisioning Dalton as some kind of magical "Gay Hogwarts". Unfortunately, the notion was jossed by the show before I got the chance to post this fic. I think I intended to edit it to be more canon compliant but instead I forgot about it instead and thus the completed story mouldered away in my WIPs until I recently rediscovered it and thought _why the hell not_

It begins as these things often do: with exceptionally cheesy 80’s pop music.

Specifically Rick Astley.

It’s third period when David receives the link. It looks innocuous enough, some article on the resurgence of glam rock from Rollingstone.com. But of course, as soon as he clicks it, the opening notes from Astley’s 1987 hit single start blaring from his unfortunately loud laptop speakers right there in the middle of Economics. 

Ms. Marino pauses her lecture mid-word to watch, amused, as David unsuccessfully bangs keys in a desperate attempt to find the mute button.

“We’re no strangers to love,” Astley’s voice croons through the air. “You know the rules and so do I…”

And because there are at least half a dozen Warblers in the class, absolutely none of whom would ever miss an opportunity to put on a show, when Rick starts in about commitments and feelings, he’s accompanied by a four-part harmony. And if Blaine happens to end up on his knees on top of Ms. Marino’s desk by the end of it, well, no one could ever accuse the Warblers’ lead singer of lacking showmanship.

“Not that I’m complaining, per se,” their mild-mannered teacher says when the final notes have faded, “but is there any particular reason you all were moved to song in the middle of my lecture on Veblen and Giffen goods?”

David doesn’t quite have the grace to blush. “Sorry, Ms. Marino, ma'am. It’s just my uncle. He’s apparently been living under a rock since 2007 and still thinks Rick-rolling is cool.”

Ms. Marino’s delicate grey eyebrows arch up to meet her snow-white hairline. “Apparently I’ve been living under a rock for even longer,” she laments, “because I have no heavenly idea what on Earth that is.”

“Rickrolling is an internet meme in which—”

“Nor do I particularly want to learn, thank you, Eric.”

“Thanks, Eric,” Wes parrots.

“Yeah, thanks Eric.” Blaine grins and pokes him in the side.

Eric sniffs and rolls his eyes but smiles too.

“Now, if we’re all quite done rehashing the 1980s – and, as someone who lived through them, let me assure you that once was quite enough – please turn to the discussion of Leibenstein’s article on page 394 of your text…” 

*

As it turns out, they are not quite done rehashing the 1980s.

Not even close.

*

One spontaneous performance of a cheesy retro classic prompted by an ill-advised internet meme, Blaine can understand. When he hears two days later that some underclassmen just pulled off a surprising well-choreographed rendition of Don’t You Forget About Me in tenth grade Phys Ed, yes okay, he does think it’s a little strange but not anything to worry about. The Breakfast Club was always his second favourite Brat Pack movie, after all, and Blaine can definitely understand how its iconic theme might occasionally inspire kids to break out into killer dance sequence or two.

However, when Wes grabs him by the arm and rushes him outside because they desperately need someone to moon-walk for a spontaneous performance of Billie Jean on the tennis court, Blaine is struck by the realization that he might just have a serious epidemic on his hands.

(He goes anyway, of course. It is Michael Jackson, after all.)

A week later, they’ve already done Like a Prayer, Under Pressure, Sweet Child O’ Mine, at least two separate versions of Love is a Battlefield, and an honestly ridiculous (even for them) production of Girls Just Want To Have Fun replete with sweatbands and neon-coloured leggings. And those are just the ones Blaine participated in. He’s fucking exhausted and has way too much school work to catch up on to indulge Wes when he asks if the faculty would object terribly to Physical by Olivia Newton John.

“I don’t know, Wes. Probably?” David answers for him. “It _is_ a little suggestive.”

“Like a Prayer was a little suggestive.”

“I didn’t even know that song was about blowjobs until you told me! Which, thanks for that, by the way. It’s only my mother’s favourite Madonna song and now every time she sings along with her Greats Hits album in the car my ears are actually going to bleed.”

“Blaine!” They both turn to him at the same time. Blaine just blinks tiredly.

“Physical, yes or no?” Wes shoots.

“No,” Blaine says firmly. “No more 80’s music.”

David blinks. Wes sputters.

“I’m behind in at least three different classes and falling asleep in the rest of them because we just had to rehearse all night for the Hungry Like the Wolf/When Doves Cry mash-up Stacey insisted on doing yesterday. Our academic averages just won’t hold up under this kind of onslaught, you guys.

“We’ve done Madonna, Bowie, Prince, Cyndi Lauper, MJ – I think we’ve done the 80's proud and now it’s time to leave its infectious pop, teased hair and acid-washed jeans to rest in peace.”

“Journey,” David says.

Blaine wants to cry. “Journey?”

Wes nods, apparently following this conversation far more easily. “Journey. We haven’t done any Journey. We can’t just retire the 80's without addressing such a heinous oversight.”

“I hate you both,” Blaine says because goddammit, they’re right. Even with his grades crying out from their death knells and bruises on his elbows from smacking into walls as he sleep-walks around the school like a b-movie zombie, there’s still no way Blaine’s willing to be complicit in that kind of musical blasphemy. “Fine,” he sighs. “One more song. One last Journey song and then all of this? It ends. No more semi-rehearsed productions in the cafeteria. No more impromptu performances in the science lab. I don’t even want to hear anyone humming anything composed prior to 1990, comprende?”

Wes pouts. David sighs. Blaine stares them down impetuously until they both nod sullenly. 

*

If you’re only allowed one Journey song, there really is no choice in the matter, is there?

* 

When the last of the streamers litter the quad and the Roman candles have all fizzled out, the Warbles pat themselves on the back for a job well done. If anyone in their audience had ever actually been tempted to stop believing, their faith in small town girls and city boys had surely been restored.


End file.
